The Dolomite mountain range is full of stories, like gnomes spinning moonlight, soldiers fighting valiantly and climbers risking their lives.  And every year, families like mine walk into those mountains hoping to make stories of our own.

Our goal was Lago di Sorapis, a beautiful turquoise lake hidden high among some snowy, jagged peaks.  David found it on a hiking app, and we all got excited.

We imagined gorgeous views and fresh mountain air. But there was one part of the trail we couldn’t have imagined–a haunting, cement structure just a mile into it.

We hadn’t been in Italy long.  After months of planning, we left the United States literally a few hours after I submitted my grades for school, and this hike was one of our first Italian adventures.

With jet lag still hanging on us like heavy blankets, we started walking the well-marked trail.  Pine needles crunched under our feet, and sunshine, peeking through the branches, urged us onward.

The conversation was lighthearted.  We talked about possible bigfoot sightings, and Joy teased David about his lack of “aura”.

Our happy voices filled the forest until the trail turned and David saw it.

“What’s that?” he yelled.

We all looked up, and about one hundred meters off the trail stood what looked like a small, rounded cement castle coming right out of the mountain.  Grass, moss and shrubs grew from the top of it, and there were gray markings where water ran down its sides.  Carved into the thick concrete were narrowed, slitted windows, and when I saw that, I knew this wasn’t just a bunker.  This was a machine gun nest.  Soldiers shot out of those slits killing men possibly right where we were standing.

“Let’s go look,” I said.  We all hiked up the side of the mountain to the opening of the nest, and I imagined a machine gunner waiting to shoot us from the darkness.  The rusted iron door was open, and the darkness inside the cement tomb seemed to laugh at us, daring us to come inside.

“I’m going in,” David said, his voice ringing with 19-year-old swagger.  His first few steps led him to a brick wall, blocking the entrance to the stairs, probably built years after whatever war had brought noise and death to the trees surrounding us.

“David,” I said looking at him facing that wall, “someone probably built that to keep hikers out.”  But as I got closer, I could see the wall had been broken down.

David peered over the rubble.

“I think I can get over this,” he said, putting his weight on the wall and hoisting himself up.

Deb and I looked at each other, wondering if we should say something.  After all, shouldn’t a responsible adult say “no” to something like this?  That wall was definitely put there for a reason.  But being parents who had made the mistake of trying to control our adult children in the past, we let go and waited with bated breath.  I thought of Costa Rica and the waterfall.

“How you doin’ in there, David?”  I shouted.

“Oh my gosh!” David yelled back, his voice echoing off the concrete walls.  “These stairs just keep going down!”

“That’s crazy!” I yelled back, looking at Deb. Her furrowed brow and wide eyes gave away the tension she felt.

His voice got harder to hear as he went deeper, and before he got to the bottom, I had enough.

“We better keep hiking, David!” I yelled.  Rain was forecasted, so my suggestion held some weight, and in a few minutes, he stepped back into the daylight.

We kept hiking and talking about what he saw.

“I wonder how deep that thing goes,” David said.  “Maybe if there’s time on the way back, we could explore it more.”

Deb looked at me, and I paused.

“Sure,” I said, a bit hesitant, secretly hoping there wouldn’t be time.

We hiked the rest of the way, past the waterfalls, holding on to steel cables when the trail got thin, climbing up stone steps and finally looking at the bluest lake we’d ever seen.

We stayed and ate lunch, setting our bags of snacks on the rocks and staring at that perfect blue water.  The reflection of the snowy jagged peaks and the sound of the birds brought so much peace.

“Thank you, Jesus!” Joy whispered.

We finished lunch, and after Joy took a moment to wade into the cold water, we headed back down the trail.

By the time we got to the machine gun nest, there still wasn’t rain, and we didn’t have to be anywhere for at least an hour.

“We’ve got time,” David said, “What do you guys think about Joy and I checking out that bunker?”

Deb’s raised eyebrows sent a clear message.  “This doesn’t look good,” she seemed to say, “but it’s your call.”

I paused, praying I wouldn’t regret my answer.

“Okay,” I finally said, trying to say “yes” to adventure.  But as I answered, I decided I didn’t have to join them.  There was nothing in me that wanted to climb over that wall and go deep into that tunnel.  Mature adults aren’t supposed to do that, right?  The smells, the trash, and all the unknowns felt like too much for a 52-year-old man.  Or maybe I was just scared.

As we got closer, questions hit me like the rat-a-tat of the machine gunner’s fire.

What about animals in there?

What about a cave in?

And what dad would let his kids go in there alone?

That last question hit me right in the gut.

We turned the corner and could see the nest further up the trail.

“You wanna come with us, Dad?” Joy asked.

Dang it! I thought, Now I have to go!

“Definitely!” I said to Joy with a smile, trying to seem confident.

And as I said that, a shot of adrenaline pulsed up and down my spine.

We handed Deb our backpacks and stepped past the iron door.  David went first, hopping over the broken wall and disappearing.

Here we go, I thought, taking a deep breath.  And then Joy and I put our hands on that broken wall, hoisted ourselves up, and stepped into the darkness.

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